


Undercurrent

by Servetolive



Category: KMFDM, Rammstein
Genre: Dark, Dark Comedy, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, M/M, Nationalism, Passive-aggression, Racism, Snark, Squick, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 02:03:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7555828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Servetolive/pseuds/Servetolive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tension between Sascha K and Till intensifies on tour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undercurrent

Disclaimer: Entertainment purposes only, don't own, never happened. w/e 

 

_1997_

I.

The first time that both groups in their near-entirety were able to actually hang out together was three shows in, which Sascha considered quite late and unusual.

“Now, you guys get to see what we’re like,” Richard said earlier when they were entering the bar, “ _in bed_.”

The end remark resulted in a smattering of giggles and comments, as the guitarist had likely expected.  Sascha thought it was an arrogant thing to assume that KMFDM sat around wondering what Rammstein was like without flamethrowers and silver costumes, even though he knew that the question had passed his mind more than once.

The bar was just down the street from the venue, and even Sascha was surprised at how much energy everyone still had.  They were behaving amiably enough with a drink or two under their belts, especially Nick.  Nick really seemed to fit in well with Rammstein’s lot, and it didn’t surprise him that En Esch was the livest at this modest afterparty.  He felt a pang of pity for John, who did not speak German, but felt that he was fine in Gunther’s company, who had gotten up from sitting on the other side of Till and joined him behind Sascha.  Sascha let it go.  For the moment, he enjoyed the opportunity to speak his native tongue with somebody other Esch and Schulz, however mismatched the company.

Esch had asked Doom how he began playing drums in the DDR, and Doom began to retell the story of how his brother had acquisitioned junk to form a rudimentary drum set.

“Amazing,” Sascha remarked, and he meant it. He heard from several about the difficulty in expression via the medium of music in East Germany before--particularly, the obstacles involved in purchasing equipment. Yet, it never failed to inspire.

Doom smiled. “It sounded like shit!”

“I’ll bet it did,” Esch chimed in, followed by miming, sound effects: the general Nick-ness that made talking to him while drunk so entertaining.

“How about you, uh, _Sascha_?”

 _Sascha._ Every time they said his name, it seemed like they were pronouncing something utterly foreign to them.

“Me?” Sascha took a drink, suddenly distracted by an onset of inadequacy that left him somewhat embarrassed.  From the beginning of their time together, he had been dismayed to find that there was no underlying current of superiority to these younger men as he felt there well should be.  Hadn’t he been around longer? Hadn’t he struggled—not in the same manner, but still so—to do what he loved and wanted to do? He chalked it up to being the headliner on the tour of these monsters of entertainment, who used special effects and props as much as Sascha relied on the regulated silence and simplicity of his image.

“I bought my first bass guitar when I was sixteen.”

“You could afford a bass guitar at sixteen?” Flake, who hadn’t said much, and still seemed disinterested, asked.

“Yeah, well… I saved up for it. I had already been working for three years.”

“Ah.”  Maybe Sascha was imagining it, but his reply seemed to have fallen flat.  They couldn’t relate.

Sascha hoped that he was the only one to observe an ever widening divide between them, that it was just his own misgivings.  These men were his contemporaries, but looking at them, he admitted to himself that though they spoke the same language and grew up in the same generation, it was Sascha who was the outsider.  There were extremes there that need not have been spoken about; that of Sascha—with his Russian-sounding name, bleached hair, slight frame, and contrived Socialist rhetoric—and the members of Rammstein, who had actually _lived_ in the world Sascha can only conjure with equipment gained by relatively easy and legitimate means. Even his audience was far away from his homeland, too stupid to understand that his lyrics were imagined—not intended or experienced.

Being intimidated wasn’t Sascha’s style, but just the appearance of the men made him more aware of perceived shortcomings than he preferred. Take Paul, for example; the tiny one: shorter than Sascha and purportedly half Belarusian. He looked hard.

Thank God for Esch, half-witted he was at the time, who was meant to fill the physical and metaphorical gap between Sascha and the other band.  Passers-by probably mistook him for a member of Rammstein, and Sascha—a humbled fanboy.

“Hey, Konietzko,” Paul started, with a tone of genuine interest and a curious, disarming smile. “I have a question.”

They even referred to each other by their last names.  It was meant to be a symbol of endearment, but Sascha found himself wondering if that was a remnant of their upbringing. “What?”

“Why is it that you don’t write your songs in German?”

It really wasn’t meant to make him feel threatened, and Sascha knew that. Esch whirled around on his stool to face Sascha and was quiet, waiting eagerly for the answer as if _he_ had asked the question.  The tops of Sascha’s cheeks didn’t burn, but tingled slightly in response to the thundering pre-notion that the conversation would head right into rougher waters.

“I do,” he replied, without a trace of defensiveness. “But my label is here in America, and in America they speak English.”

Till, who had been quiet next to Flake—that is, three heads down from Sascha after Esch, Paul and Richard—leaned forward so that he could look directly at Sascha while he spoke to him.

“But your early work,” he began, every word sounding like the rumble of the ground cracking beneath their feet, “was done while you were still in Hamburg, wasn’t it?”

“Right.”

“Your lyrics were in English then, too.”

Till smiled.  On the surface, there would be nothing untoward about the expression, but Sascha knew in his gut that it wasn’t so. He had the idea that this was a man who liked to corner people, relishing the evaporation of hope and pride as they attempt—and fail—to escape from under his asphyxiating shadow.

“Well, hold on,” Richard interrupted, and Sascha was glad for it.  It should have been Esch, though, and were it not for his aversion to being butthurt in front of other men, especially one as close as Nick, he had half of a mind to string him up for it later. “Didn’t you have with you, uh, that British fellow? The one with the deep voice?”

“Who,” Esch said, squinting after taking a sip of whiskey. “Raymond? Ohhh, _Raymond!_ ” He leaned back and laughed out loud to unwelcome memories that nobody at the bar besides the two of them knew about.

Sascha imagined his fist breaking into every single one of Nick's front teeth. Outwardly, he remained calm, and simply pulled his lips back into a smile, obligatory around En Esch when he behaved with less control. It showed others who is dominant; who is the smarter one, laying aside the contrast in height and stature.

“Yeah, the one who records in Japan.  He didn’t seem like he spoke German.”

It really was a simple and oft-asked question, and he usually lied to dumb reporters who couldn’t be bothered to research his previous answers to other journalists.  But face to face with another German--a _real_ German, he acknowledged bitterly--with pent up aggression and masculinity in every note of their music and muscle in their bodies, he couldn’t think of a way to answer the question without being a dick about it.

Using Raymond Watts as an excuse would have been a perfect way to duck out of this conversation without pissing anybody off, but Till shattered Sascha’s temporary relief.

“I get it.” And there, Till gave Sascha a smile meant only for him: not just because everyone else was looking in Sascha’s direction, but because it dripped with something lewd and poisonous.

“Konietzko, you’re an Anglophile.”

To everyone else, Till was just teasing, and they reacted accordingly, with drunken laughter and whoo-hoos. Forget the veiled suggestion about he and Raymond. It was the gleaming edge of nationalism, of hatred born of the conflicts past, that caught Sascha by surprise, freezing his blood.

“Whoa,” Sascha said, attempting to find cover in the potential humor. He took a drink, and cleared his throat, and quipped in English, “Cease fire.”

“Cease fire!”

“Ceasing firing.”

“You guys mean to tell me,” Sascha began, having found his voice, “That you’ve never considered it kind of cool to write music in another language?”

“They don’t speak any other languages, Sascha,” En Esch said, to humorous effect.  The three members of Rammstein who were involved in the conversation more or less nodded.

“What’s wrong with the one we’ve got?” Flake noted.  The words stung, but Sascha thought to ignore Flake, which wasn’t that hard, since he didn’t seem to have much to contribute.  Everyone knew that Flake hated America, and Sascha could tell by his posture and lack of interest that he thought of KMFDM and the United States as nearly identical.

“Well, we grew up speaking it,” Sascha decidedly answered, thinking himself quite bold. “Kind of sick of hearing it.”

“Hm.”

At that point, Sascha considered giving them something; saying something like the desperate-sounding ‘Hey guys, you know, make no mistake about it: I’m _German_.’ But fuck these people, he thought. They could go on thinking what they wanted about him.

“By the way, how did you learn English so well?” Paul asked.

Sascha thought that a strange question; most West German children were taught English from a young age.  Didn’t they know that? Was that what Paul was really asking? He thought it better not to speak his mind, though, and ran a different approach.

“Hamburg was in the British zone of occupation, remember?”

“Oh,” they said, again nodding almost collectively. “Right.”

It was probably not the best thing to say, Sascha noted in immediate retrospect.

“Hey, we’re all Germans here,” Esch said, joyful and silly. 

 _There he is_ , Sascha thought, his anger towards his younger bandmate dissipating.

“Amen,” Richard agreed.

Till raised his glass. Sascha followed, despite his desire not to.  He didn’t believe in toasting foreign countries on foreign lands.

“To Germany.”

The men toasted and finished their glasses.  Sascha could have sworn that Till’s eyes lingered on him for a moment, as if to make sure that Sascha would crack his pretty _, Slavic_ mouth open and sing praises to his native land as prompted. 

He didn’t.  He toasted, and in defiance of his self-consciousness or _their_ prejudice—whichever one—he smiled, tight-lipped, and drank.

When Till looked away, he attempted to convince himself that he was imagining things. He still felt like he was in elementary school, attracting ire and unwanted attention for nothing but his name and darker complexion, his pouty bottom lip and whatever else it was that made him look out of place.

 “I’m having a smoke,” he said, leaving his chair without waiting for anyone to come with him.  They would follow anyway, and he couldn’t do anything about it.  He wanted to relax for a moment.

He longed for the safety of his shades.

\--

“I like ‘em.”

“Yeah, you would,” Sascha almost sneered back, walking ahead of Nick on the way back to the hotel from the bar. Sascha knew what he had meant by that, but the sturdy-built six-foot Esch was too drunk and distracted to have caught any ugly suggestion in the response.  Sascha was glad for it, and regretted saying it instantly.

“What, you don’t?”

“They give me the fucking creeps, Nick. _Germany,_ ” he mimicked Till’s rumble. “ _Deutschland, ja._ Germany. The fuck is so great about Germany? It’s like any other fucking country.”

“Uh, it’s _nice_ there?”

Sascha scoffed. “Yeah, I know. I was brought up there.”

“Exactly! Nothing wrong with being proud of your roots, I say.”

“I’m sure they also said that at some rallies I wouldn’t be invited to.”

“Jeez, are you _mad_?” It wasn’t a serious question, and Sascha didn’t treat it like one. He didn’t say anything until they got to the front door of their hotel. No, he wasn’t mad, he was _uncomfortable._ It wasn’t just Germany and nationalism and shit, but he wasn’t about to let Esch know that.

“See, it all starts with national pride, right?” Sascha said as he removed the roomkey from his wallet, “Then we have white pride, then we have pride for the people the white pride people don’t like, then we have ghettos, then—“

“Oh fucking _please,_ Sascha.” He rushed Sascha into the room and all but threw himself onto his bed. “God.”

II.

At the next venue, Sascha rose earlier than usual to tend to his equipment while nobody was around to distract him.  He was on the stage, embroiled in a perfectionists’ high as he made minor adjustments to his setup.

Till was in the wing of stage left, partially obscured in the darkness by his black shirt. Sascha wouldn’t have seen him, had it not been for his jeans, but he pretended not to notice until Till took a few steps forward.

His concentration broken, he was forced to acknowledge the larger man.

“Hey, _was ist los?_ ” he said, putting down the drum key he was holding. “What’s up?”

Till had combed his hair back and would look fairly disarming if he wasn’t who he was.

“Nothing,” he said, his expression unreadable. “I was just watching you work.”

Sascha felt the back of his neck prickling with sweat.

“Uh. Okay?” He tried to chuckle, but it came out wrong: like a half-scoff that let the listening party know that he felt the space between them was too awkward, too close. He picked up the drum key and knelt down, trying to go back to what he was doing, but overly concerned with seeming nervous.

“So this is your ‘command station?’”

This was a legitimate opportunity for conversation, and Sascha didn’t mind it.  Trying not to sound too excited, he gave Till the rundown of his equipment and explained its multifunctional use.

Till moved into Sascha’s place, to the latter’s surprise, and practiced moving around in Sascha’s environment.  Sascha handed him a pair of drumsticks so that he could try it out. It was actually quite fun; they had never done that before, and he began to wonder why.

“Interesting,” Till said, handing the sticks back to Sascha. “It’s a lot to do in one small space.”

“Yes, it is.” Sascha replaced the sticks and put his hands on his hips.  He felt stupid for his wild assumptions the other day.  Really, who was _actually_ prejudiced? “It must be nice to have a whole stage to yourself.”

“A whole stage, and five men to toy with.”

Sascha didn’t know what to make of this typically Rammstein comment, especially when it was just the two of them and there was no need for a gimmick. He laughed, but his uneasiness returned when he imagined things from a different perspective, rather than with the neutral eyes of a musician with another musician.

Just looking at Till—his rough countenance, his hairiness, the lack of any discernible intent in his features, their differences in height and weight—made Sascha truly understand that in any other context, they would have no business being around each other.  If they were back in Germany, they would not rub elbows in the street without a fight resulting thereof, Sascha undeniably being destroyed.

He needed to end this conversation, and was about to do so before Till ended it for him.

“What,” Till said, humor still present in his voice, but bleeding away with each word. “Don’t your men play with _you_? _Saszko?”_

Sascha wasn’t sure if he had heard him right. “What?”

“I said,” Till repeated, slowly. “Your men play with you. _Saszko.”_

Sascha couldn’t move. He hadn’t heard that diminutive name in nearly a decade, and the idea that he may never hear it nor the suggestiveness and femininity in it again was no small perk in leaving Hamburg.

“It’s Sascha,” was all he could manage, mouth parted with disbelief.

“In Hamburg, back in the 80’s, it was _Saszka_ for some people, yeah? _Maly Saszko…_ ” Even as Till’s large, calloused hand moved for Sascha’s face, his thumb making to caress his bottom lip, it took Sascha until the last moment before he could unfreeze himself.

The intent was to simply walk past Till and out of the door, but as he got nearer, something primal in him that he hadn’t known existed prior to meeting Till, broke free.  He was helpless against it, and tried to take off running.

It was a bad idea. Had he kept walking normally, he might have gotten away, but he understood then that Till was as much of an animal as his stage presence suggested.  Prior to that, he had believed that the biological fact of predators feeding on fear was nothing but a sexy allegory for human desire.

Till caught him by the back of his pants and yanked.  Sascha slammed against his chest and struggled, instinctively.

“Let me go,” Sascha said, his voice hard, but the foundations of it shaken.  He was already subdued. He closed his eyes and swallowed, running through every possible explanation as to how and why Till knew his nickname from the old scene.

Esch. It was Esch. He could imagine the idiot, thinking he’s the life of the fucking party in the few seconds he had left him alone, crying out something like “Oh, just don’t call him _Maly Saszko,_ it’ll get him so fucking mad…”

“Tell me more about your Hamburg, _Saszko_ ,” Till nearly cooed his mocking words into Sascha’s ear, but whipped out his heaviness for the loathed nickname, causing Sascha to flinch away involuntarily.

“Is everyone smart there? Do they all _really_ speak English as well as you do? Will I learn if I go? Maybe it’ll help my career.”

“Let _go_ , Till!”

“And if I do,” Till went on as he slid a hand down the back of Sascha’s pants. 

“What the _fuck!”_

The more he struggled, the more Till crushed him against his chest, squeezing the breath out of him.  He was only hurting himself.

“… Will I get a pretty _Russichehure_ like you, if I say the right things? Have the right equipment, maybe?”

Sascha had no direction in his thoughts.  What was greater: the shame he experienced within from being taunted by his past, or the disgust oncoming as he felt Till wiggle a dry finger inside of him? Till’s humiliating rhetoric, meant to dehumanize?

It did not feel good. Sascha fought back a scream as Till's nail sliced into his flesh, and clenched, squirming away as best he could.

“ _Stop!”_

Till did stop, and when he released Sascha, the shorter man pushed himself back from his assailant violently, falling over the equipment he had spent so much time assembling.  Till looked down at him under sharp, icy eyes, full of contempt, hatred, and some ruinous form of _want_. He spat: not directly on Sascha, but on stage, near enough for Sascha to understand what he meant by it.  He went on glaring at Till, enraged but helpless and impotent.

“Back home, I would sell you for _so_ many fucking packs of cigarettes,” Till said, his voice like gravel. “Over and over again.”

He brought his fingers to his nose, and rubbed them together. He dragged Sascha up off of the ground and, with the same hand that he had used on him, gave a patronizing slap on the cheek.

Sascha winced.

“Clean yourself up, _Saszko._ ” Till said in accented, but steady English. “Be nice.”

And then he exited stage right, without another word.

Sascha wiped his face so hard with his sleeve that it burned afterward.

He forced himself to remain calm.  He had a show in a couple of hours.  He needed to wash his face, have five cigarettes in a row, and then return and finish setting up.

There was nothing else he could do.

He could think about how to free himself from Till’s attention later, he thought, as he stood up to right his equipment.  This could not become a distraction.

III.

Sascha was distracted.

It wasn’t his fault.  The rest of the day had gone by normally, and he assumed that the encounter with Till was just a one-off, that he was simply throwing his weight and dominance around for a cheap thrill.

How could he focus on his soundboard and enjoy himself while being glared at in the same way as before?

Finally, Sascha found relief during the opening of _Liebeslied,_ when he glanced over and saw that Till was no longer leering at him in the wing of stage left.

The relief turned on him the second he saw Richard and Till out of the corner of his right eye, carrying a box of something, and throwing its contents out into the crowd.

Condoms. He rolled his eyes behind his shades and tried to swallow his indignation. Sure, the fans loved it, and so did Esch as he grabbed Richard with one arm and belted out the German lyrics. But he couldn’t get over how shamelessly _rude_ it was.  It was like pissing to mark territory.

They walked across the stage to exit, passing Sascha on the way.  While screaming the chorus into the microphone, Sascha tried not to acknowledge Till as the larger man went around the equipment and slipped one of the condoms in Sascha’s left back pocket.  He left it with a soft pat, and disappeared.

Sascha waited for the verse to end before reaching back and flinging the item away. He felt much better. He grabbed his bass guitar and joined the rest of the band at stage front for the next bit.

\--

The guys were ready to go.  Sascha had stayed back to mingle with his fans, partially because that was his practice, and partially because the masses were a viable human shield between he and Till.  He was the last one back at the hotel and needed a shower before heading out.  He didn’t feel so anxious: everyone was excited after an energetic show; Nick had said that he had an idea, something for all of them to do together. And if they were all together, there was no threat of being alone with Till.

“What exactly are we doing, anyway?” Sascha pulled himself out of his shirt.

“I’ll show you when we get there,” Nick replied, lighting a cigarette. “C’mon, man, hurry up. They’re waiting on us.”

“Go down there and wait with them,” Sascha offered. He placed one boot up on the nightstand so that he could unfasten it. “I need a shower.”

“A _shower_? Sascha, you smell great. C’mere.”

Sascha switched feet and waved En Esch away, laughing. “I’m _taking_ a shower.  Are you going to stay and watch, or what?”

“Sweetheart, you’ve got nothing new or interesting to show me,” Nick chortled on his way out, dismissing the middle finger that Sascha flung in his direction. “I’ll be downstairs.”

The door didn’t close all the way, which was fine; Nick had a tendency to lose his room keys, and the boys in Rammstein were staying five miles down the road from them. Sascha moved into the bathroom and turned the shower on to “heat up” while he gathered his underwear and fresh clothing from his go-bag—an old habit from living without decent heating for some decades.

He stifled a gasp when he returned to the bedroom.

“ _Saszko,”_ Till inquired quietly, the door closed fully behind him with the chain lock secured. He wore normal clothes, but hadn’t washed up; his makeup and eyeliner running from sweat and abuse. “You have something clean for me?”

Sascha forgot what he was doing. The sound of running water even went dead, becoming extra noise in his mind.

“What do you want?”

“I’ve already told you.”

“I thought you were just fucking around.”

As much as Sascha wanted to believe that, the seriousness on Till’s face—the same as in his performances—proved that he was only fucking around with himself, no matter how ridiculous Till looked.

“Really, Sascha,” Till said, taking a step into the room. “Do I look like I’m the type?”

Without waiting for Till to finish, Sascha dove toward the phone and picked up the receiver. As he dialed the operator—he didn’t know why—and waited for an answer, Till crossed the room in three large steps. He took the phone from the desk and ripped it out of the wall in a short, effortless pull, destroying the jack in the process.

“What do you think you’re _doing?_ ” Till sighed, using a scolding tone that Sascha did not particularly like. “Use your head, Sascha. ‘ _Till Lindemann Tried to Rape Me’_ doesn’t sound like a very dignifying article in _Kerrang!._ ”

Sascha attempted to bolt again, with one of the twin beds in his way.  Till was on the other side waiting for him.  He grabbed Sascha by his bare left shoulder and guided him back to the desk.

“Calm down,” Till said, “And sit your little ass over here.”

Sascha had no choice but to let himself be planted firmly into the chair.

“What the fuck do you _want_ from me?”

“It’s quite simple.” Till turned and leaned back against the faux wood, folding his arms and looking down at the smaller man with cold, blue eyes.

“You give me this: tell me that you are fake; that all of this is bullshit. Say it out loud.”

Sascha turned to look up at Till. “Excuse me?”

“Tell me that you’ve sold yourself to America. Much like you did in Hamburg, when you couldn’t get what you needed.” Sascha bristled at this suggestion, but had no chance to argue against it. “Do that,” Till continued, “And I’ll walk out of this room. You’ll have the tour of your dreams.”

Before Sascha could respond, Till reached into his pocket and pulled something made of plastic out.

“Oh, and by the way,” he began. He emptied the contents out onto the desk. “I’ve brought something for you.”

With his hands in his lap, Sascha glared down at the salt-like granules, too large and angular to be cocaine.

“I’m not taking that.”

“I insist.”

Sascha shook his head, feeling pitiable: like a child refusing to eat his vegetables. “I said no. I don’t want any.”

Till stood over him and shrugged lazily with one shoulder. “Suit yourself,” he said, as he reached down the front of his pants. “But it’s going to hurt.”

Sascha watched, partially horrified and partially mesmerized as Till’s hand found his hard cock and pulled it upright, so that the tip was visible above the rim of his pants. It looked every bit as proportional to Till’s stature and girth as his words and persona were.

He was right. It _would_ hurt.

Sascha reached into his pocket to pull out a dollar bill, and began rolling it up.

“ _Why?_ ” He asked, realizing that he was raising his voice, something that he did not often need to do. “Why do you need this? You want me to tell you that you’re the better band? You want me to say that I’m a waste of time?”

“Yes.”

“For _what?_ ”

“Because,” Till said, crushing Sascha under the weight of his eyes, “I just can’t resist pretty Western boys like you, that _try too hard._ ”

Hours—even minutes—ago, Sascha would have given or said anything to be out of this predicament. Now, he felt his cheeks filling with blood, his knuckles white from the pull of his fists.

“Or don’t take it. Just say it, Sascha,” Till added facetiously, with a grin that further served to enrage him. “I’ll even kiss your feet.”

Sascha’s jaw hardened. He narrowed his eyes.

“Fuck _you_ ,” he said, definitively, and in English. “Go back to fucking Germany if you like it so much.”

Till did not react with the anger and violence that Sascha had expected, but shook his head.

“Don’t make me hurt you, Sascha. I don’t want to embarrass anyone. Just take it and relax a bit. Make yourself happy.”

Sascha sighed harshly, his rolled-up bill in hand. It took him some time to build up enough nerve to face the oncoming pain.

“I haven’t done this in nearly ten years.” It was a lie, but whether or not Till knew that was of no concern to either men.

“Now’s as good a time to reminisce as any, _Saszko._ ”

He took it, not even bothering to cut the dope up into a thinner line. He was all over the place. When he came up, he coughed brutally, some of the grains caught in his throat, irritating the membranes there.

“There, there, _Saszko_ ,” Till cooed absently, taking one of Sascha’s cigarettes from the pack on the desk and lighting it.

Sascha barely heard him over his coughing. He stood up with his arm over his face, fighting the searing pain in his sinuses, catching tears from the corner of his right eye. When the fog cleared, he was breathing heavily—he could hear his heart beating in his ears, the blood rushing from his extremities. He let his hands fall to his side and tilted his head back so that the bitter substance could trickle down the back of his throat.

Till seemed to be enjoying watching Sascha acclimate, smoking as he observed Sascha attempt to regulate his breathing, making “ahh” sounds with his mouth.

“It really has been a while for you, hasn’t it?” Till said as he crushed the half-finished cigarette against the desk and approached Sascha, right hand moving forward to grab him by the roots of his mohawk and force him down to waist-height.

Sascha wasn’t ready.  The idea of anything in his mouth—particularly another grown man’s dick—was enough to make him gag, let alone the taste of bitter salts rubbing against his tonsils. He would, at that point, most certainly puke.

Then, he felt the head rush, and the muscles in his body suddenly constricted all at once. He doubled over, arms across his solar plexus.

“Ugh…”

He heard Till chuckle before being yanked up out of the chair by his hair—which didn’t hurt so much as it aggravated him—and herded over to the bathroom.  Till shoved him in, and held the door open.

“Strip,” he said.

Sascha glared at him in disbelief. “ _What_?”

“Go on,” Till said, quietly. “You know what to do.”

Sascha shook his head to ward off any misplaced feeling of humor or arousal.

“Get _out_!”

Till leaned his head against the door, crossing his arms to show that he had no intent of leaving. “You can’t hold it all night, can you?”

“This is fucking unreal,” Sascha breathed as he unfastened his pants, making a conscious decision to mentally check out as another man—a practical stranger—held the door open and watched as he emptied his guts.

The shower was still running.

IV.

Minutes later, Till shifted his weight and removed his head from the door.

“You done?”

Sascha lifted his head up, but refused to look at Till.

“Yeah.”

“Shower, then.” Till reached over with a long leg and flushed the toilet with the tip of his boot.

The water was freezing, but welcoming for just a moment, until Till ordered him to turn around and face him while he bathed.

From past experiences, Sascha reckoned that around this time in the high, he would be giggling, chattering incessantly, running circles around his mind and those around him, conceptualizing.

But as he stood facing Till, staring him down, the only thing he could conceptualize was how he could possibly resist, after accepting the fact that the absolute worst would, indeed, occur. He leaned back against the tile, his wet hair plastered against his head, and watched Till light another cigarette. He could feel his pupils dilating.

“Don’t worry, _Saszko,_ ” Till muttered into the cigarette. “You’re going to love it.”

Sascha decided that he would use the only weapon available to him: his mouth.

He exhaled a short, mocking laugh and shook his head, slowly.

“You’re really not my type.”

“Oh?” Till’s arm—the one with the lighter—fell by his side. “You know, you don’t strike me as one who’s particularly discriminating.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Sascha spat, smirking darkly. “ _Russichehuren_ actually have class.”

Till tossed his cigarette into the sink and gave Sascha another strangely indecipherable look. It was almost as if he were impressed to see how adversity breathed a new, twisted kind of life into him. Seeing it gave Sascha his own rush, which pleasantly surprised him.

“You’re clean now, aren’t you?” Till went over to turn off the shower, and they were interrupted by noises coming from the bedroom.

\--

“Hey—Sascha?”

The door was parted open, caught on the chain lock.

“Oh, what the fuck.”

“Is he in there?” Sascha heard Gunther ask.  Till was holding him at the bathroom door by his shoulder and a large, sweaty palm clamped across his mouth. They were out of visual range of whoever was attempting to enter.

Sascha tensed up in Till’s grasp, and Till accurately surmised that Sascha was about to yell for his bandmates.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, pulling back on Sascha’s head with his palm.  Sascha was assaulted with an image in his head of Till shoving him into the bedroom, his face forced into the crack of the door so that his friends could see him getting fucked.

Yeah. No. He held still.

“Fucking lock is on.”

“Should we break it open?”

“What? No, stupid; you wanna pay for it?”

“Well, where the fuck is he then?”

“Sascha!”

“… Is he taking a dump?”

“No, I can see the bathroom light. There’s no one in here.”

“… Fucker left without us.”

“Little shit…” Their voices faded away when the door shut again.

Till waited until he could be certain of no further interruptions before he removed his hand from Sascha’s mouth.  Sascha had a good mind to bite him, but the callouses—burns from pyrotechnics, or just from his lifestyle in Leipizig—against his softer lips made him aware that such an act would be mockable.

Till might have let go of his mouth, but he kept a hand steady on Sascha’s shoulder. He used this leverage to shove him back into the room.  Sascha attempted to winch away from him, but was eased into a sitting position on the edge of his bed, anyway.

Till began undoing the top of his pants. “Close your eyes, Sascha.”

Sascha went on glaring at him.

“Imagine that you are back in Hamburg. I own a studio. You’ve got no _Arbitur,_ no diploma to permit you to study at university.” Till freed his cock from his underwear, and although the sight of it made Sascha’s stomach roll, he showed none of this to the East German. “You want to make music, don’t you?”

“I’m very sorry that your sister had to whore herself out to bring a hundred grams of meat home for your family of six,” Sascha droned as he steeled himself for what was to come.

It was Till’s turn to smirk at Sascha, which was a horrifying thing for him to behold. “I really like you, Saszko. You _do_ have class. Wherever it comes from.”

Recalling himself as the youngest, hottest new thing on the scene was never a tactic that Sascha had ever put effort into, but he had no choice this time. He allowed the end of Till’s cock to slide up his tongue and into his mouth, fighting his gag reflex as the tip touched the back of his throat.

Till went on, making all kinds of vulgar and guttural sounds with his throat, slowly pushing Sascha back until he was halfway buried into the mattress.

“God…” Till grunted, his fingers firmly wrapped into Sascha’s hair, pulling it back. Sascha never broke eye contact with him, even as he felt the crunch of his stomach squeezing against involuntary impulses.

Soon, Till was nearly upright, slamming himself down into Sascha’s throat at a vertical angle. It hurt, but Sascha refused to give this man any satisfaction of hearing him whine for leniency; for gentleness. They continued their staring match until Till withdrew, slick and shiny, leaving whispy strings of mucous and saliva between his cock and Sascha’s mouth as he pulled away.

Sascha coughed, but maintained his composure.

“You ready?” Till growled, spreading the moisture around himself with his palm.

Sascha wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, hacked, and spat onto the matted floor of the hotel room.

“I’ve had bigger,” he said defiantly. Didn’t matter that it was another lie.  It amused him that Till had constructed some painfully idiotic alternate reality for Sascha; that on principle, punk boys from “artsy” Western cities grew up blowing each other in their leather jackets and shaved heads. That Sascha, for some reason, would be unable to resist some imaginary impulse of wanting to be fucked.

Till showed his teeth when he smiled, and delighted in noting all of his gross imperfections: the uneven spaces between them, the botched fillings.

As Till pulled his knees apart, Sascha suddenly realized what it was that Till was after at that point.  

Even as his nerves crackled, chasing the slow, dull burn of Till’s cock, he resolved to give up _nothing_.

It wasn’t easy. There was the pain of being stretched, but aside from the sound of him breathing heavily through his nose, Sascha set his jaw and did not react.  It was hard not to just let his head roll back and make it a purely sensory experience, and even harder not to clench his teeth, swear, or grab handfuls of sheets.  He went on, glaring emotionlessly, if not for a hint of arrogance in his brow, leaning back on his forearms.

Once Till was halfway inside of him, he exhaled deeply, his breath cool against Sascha’s sweaty skin. The latter discarded the pleasure.

“Almost there,” Till said, running his hands up and down Sascha’s flanks, across his chest, crushing his nipples under them. Sascha imagined that he had done this on purpose, after realizing that Sascha was protesting by fighting the involuntary movements beneath his flesh.

Under the influence, and certainly under different circumstances, it might have felt good.  But to Sascha, wholly repulsed by Till and his dirty fingernails and callouses, it felt as if everywhere on his person that this man put his _hands_ especially, was left with some sickening residue.

Till pushed in again, this time placing one hand on Sascha’s right knee and using the other to grab hold of Sascha’s cock and balls. It didn’t seem like a sexual action at all; Sascha felt as though Till was thinking to rip them all off in one pull.

He loathed Till touching him there, and if there were any moment up until then that would have caused him to haul off and punch Till right in the mouth, that contact came the closest.

But he made no move to do so. He swallowed—an act of necessity rather than fear—and looked Till dead in the eye.

“Get on with it.”

 Sascha hadn’t expected what he had said to change anything. Till shook a wet strand out of his hair and returned Sascha’s stare for a moment. It seemed to be the first time he had considered something new in regarding Sascha.

And then, it went away. Till sighed. He rolled his eyes up at the ceiling, let go of him, and pulled out.

 _That_ hurt, and Sascha, who had been thrown off by the sudden change in atmosphere, couldn’t help but wince. Otherwise, he stayed down.

“You are stubborn,” Till nearly huffed as he stuffed himself back into his pants without washing. “And fucking _boring_. Just like your music.”

Sascha couldn’t help but laugh for a full two seconds before allowing his features to steel once more.

“Get the fuck out of here.”

V.

What Sascha really wanted to do was stay in the shower for the rest of the night.  He bathed three times and could not get the greasy image of Till’s hands on him out of his head, off of his skin.

But that would be irresponsible. It took him forty-five minutes to finish showering and get dressed.

He was at the crest of his high, and actually wished he could be happy about it. Whatever they were doing that night, drinking would be certainly out of the question. He was pissed about that.

Suddenly feeling rushed, he grabbed his jacket and pulled a cigarette out of the box. He lit it, took two puffs, and tossed it into the carpet aggressively, stomping on it before it could burn through the plastic fibers. He couldn’t even smoke.

He raced down the stairs as if he was about to miss his flight.  The attendant at the desk stopped him to give him a message; the boys were at a bar three blocks down, waiting on him.

Sascha thanked her, meaning it. He had no idea where he was about to run out to; he hadn’t even thought about the fact that he didn’t know where they were. He would have wandered the streets all night, reading adverts on telephone poles or something.

When he arrived at the bar, the mixed group of Rammstein and KMFDM—this time, sitting amongst each other—opened their arms and yelled for him. There was no Flake and no Till.

“There he is!” Richard called out.

Sascha smiled at the bundle and took his seat between Gunther and Esch.

“Where the fuck have you _been?_ ” Gunther asked. 

“Here,” Esch pushed his drink in front of Sascha. “We’re two drinks in, waiting for your ass.”

Sascha put his hand up to reject the drink.

“What? Why?”

Paul leaned over. “Hey Sascha,” he called, “Do you have any cigarettes?”

“Yeah, I—“ He reached into his empty pockets, and then pulled them out to pat his jacket. “Oh, shit.”

“You _forgot_ your fucking cigarettes? What is wrong with you?” Esch showed Sascha his empty pack. “I’m all out, see?”

When Nick looked at Sascha, he seemed to notice the sweating, his open pores, the shades on at night.

“Are you fucked up?”

In response, Sascha leaned over Esch to address the other band. “Where’s Till?”

Doom and Paul shrugged. “We don’t know. We left him a message to meet us here.”

Sascha feigned concern. “So he’s not coming?”

“Fuck it,” Richard said. “We’ve waited long enough. Let’s just go.”

“What about DeSalvo?”

“He met up with some chicks after the show,” Gunther responded. “It’s safe to assume that he’s indisposed.”

“ _Indecently_ indisposed.”

“ _Exposed_ , you idiot.”

They paid the tab.  Gunther suggested that they leave a message for Till with the bartender, in case he drops by. They slid off of the stools, grabbing their lighters and jackets.

“So what the fuck is this awesome thing that we’re doing, Nick?”

_Epilogue._

Esch’s idea for a great time was dragging them all to a Korean karaoke room and trying to force Sascha to sing.  That was the only time that Sascha had appreciated anything about Till that day: had he not been high, it would have been a horrible night.

The rest of the tour went uneventfully. Till and Flake kept their distance from the group’s mingling, but Sascha went to every drinking session with the mixed group thereafter, with the exception of the very next one.  By then, Sascha hadn’t slept in nearly two days and had eaten nothing but protein shakes that he had to force feed himself. He needed rest.

Despite the bar trips and the karaoke, by the end of the tour, Sascha did not feel bonded with Rammstein, as he would with any other band that he shared the road with.  It wasn’t just because of he and Till. The drinking parties were perfunctory gestures. Besides Till and Flake, the rest of the guys were very nice people. They smiled in Sascha’s face and exchanged niceties.

But they had nothing else to go off of that would have made KMFDM and Rammstein anything but two German bands.

\--

A week or so after touring ended, Sascha sat in the car with Esch, hungover and still celebrating his return to normalcy.

Esch was driving. Sascha, wearing sunglasses, paid no mind to what Nick had put into the CD player until he heard Till’s unsettlingly familiar voice.

_Bestrafe mich…_

Sascha sucked on his cheek and sighed audibly to show his extreme displeasure. He gestured toward the CD player.

“Do we fucking _have_ to? Do we?”

“What?” Esch said, looking defensively over at Sascha. “They gave it to me! I’m really digging _Sehnsucht.”_

“We just… ugh.” He knew Nick couldn’t see his eyes, but he closed them anyway. “We were just on the fucking road with them.”

Nick didn’t respond, because he was too busy singing along.  Esch didn’t know—and would never know—why he complained like a grown child who didn’t get his way. He sat back, put his foot up on the dashboard, and lit a cigarette. He did his best to tune everything out.

_Deine grosse macht mich klein…_

”Turn it off.“ Sascha suddenly leaned forward, reaching for the radio. He used a dangerous tone that was usually reserved for the studio. “Now.”

Esch tried to push his hand away. “What are you doing? Cut it out!”

Losing it, Sascha jammed his finger into the volume dial.

“ _Off,_ I said!”

 

/undercurrent

 

**Author's Note:**

> Man, I creeped myself out writing this. First thing I've finished in 5 years.
> 
> Yes, I know, I forgot Olli. But what’s funny is that after I wrote the first part, I was like ‘oh shit I forgot Olli.’ Then I thought that was hilarious and left him out anyway.
> 
> Forgot all kinds of KMFDM band members too, but I don’t give a shit, and neither should you. Their Time Will Come. Comments are wonderful. Thanks for reading, I <3 you! …/not
> 
> Also, band members: if you read this and are offended; sorry. I love you, but I don't care. :]


End file.
